


Forgiveness

by Ellepige



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emetophilia, Filthy, Injury, Loyalty, M/M, Minor Character Death, Obsession, Oral Sex, Psychological Trauma, Pukejob, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-03 00:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10956303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellepige/pseuds/Ellepige
Summary: There is no relief, no safety in his faith. And he doesn't long for it anymore.





	Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> I started off trying to write some sort of cute blowjob fic. Obviously, this didn't go exactly as planned and I apologize for that, but still I kinda like the outcome of this one.  
> There might be a second part to this, but I'll see if it strikes my fancy, so no promises for now.
> 
> As always, thank you for your time and I hope you enjoy this work!

Jesse McCree was no man of faith. He never really understood the concept of religion, never got past the state of childish little prayers before going to sleep. In Deadlock, there was only room for the iconography, the pictures, the things that looked cool while also conveying a clear message to those who knew how to read the signs.  
There is no relief, no safety in his faith. And he doesn't long for it anymore.  
Not since a few years, not since he first was taken in by Blackwatch and its Commander, Gabriel Reyes. The man was everything a god was not. He was brave, easily angered, cunning. Decidedly human, be it in a debriefing with his men or out on the battlefield. He smiled and laughed a lot, unlike the serene and stern martyrs Jesse knew from his childhood, from tacky, colorful candles and shrines in dusty churches. He fought without mercy or remorse, took action when needed and he never forgave his enemies if they did lay hand on what he deemed his.  
There had been no hesitation as he shot the Deadlock member holed up the the shabby little motel complex. The pellets of his shotgun ripped though the leather jacket of the man, then travelled through his flesh and that was where most of them stayed, nestled between ribs and intestines.  
Jesse pressed his hand to his mouth, to muffle the whine in his throat or to stop himself from throwing up right then and there, he couldn't tell. The body of the ganger sagged against a dresser, then it fell to the ground. Reyes still stood in the doorway, smoke from his gun drifted towards the ceiling, the flickering red light of the streetlamps painted a halo around his head.  
Dark eyes scanned the room, then, working mechanically, entirely because he was trained to do so, the soldier entered the chamber, closed the door behind him (locking the overpowering stench of blood and gunpowder and death in here with them) and checked the corpse. Up at this close range, there was nothing the criminal could have done to prevent getting fatally wounded, not as he was, shirtless and dressed in tight leather pants, his jacket with its patches slung over his shoulders. His cigarette still smoldered, burning a small red mark into the tanned expanse of the dead man's chest.

Jesse knows the name of that man. He could have said it, worded it out loud into the stinking air of the motel room, but that would have required him to open his mouth and no, he can't do that right now, not when he can taste bile in the back of his throat.

"You alright, kid?" Reyes doesn't look at him, so it takes the younger man a moment to realize that he's talking to him. Jesse shrugs, tries to play it cool, as he always does. He doesn't want to weigh his commander down, he wants be an asset, not a burden, he needs to be useful. A devout follower at the altar of this god of war and dead.  
Reyes's hands are dark with smoke and grime, but not as dark as his eyes. Two bottomless pits of black ink that catch him, bind him more effectively than the zip ties the ganger used to render his hands useless.  
Blood and tiny bits of tissue litter Gabriel's tactical vest, he can see them as the man turns and approaches him, pulls his knife to cut the bonds that kept Jesse tied to a chair.  
"I should have been faster," his commander mutters, the edge of the serrated knife hovers over McCree's bare skin as the gloved hand rubs his cheek. He leans into the touch, even though his heart is still racing. He's safe now.  
"'tis nothing, jefe. 'm fine, jus' a lil... tired." He's hurting all over, there are at least two broken ribs, his left hand reminds him that it's still there with a heavy, continuous pain. But he's alright. Reyes doesn't have to worry about him, he will be able to work, he will be in top condition in no time.  
His gaze flickers over to the broken body on the floor. That guy won't get back up.  
His commander killed him. For his sake.

Before he even notices, a sob breaks way. Jesse gasps, tries to fight the tears that dare to start falling right now, but he can't, and he can't even tell why he's crying. Gabriel is there, a warm, steady presence that grounds him. He presses his face against the kevlar vest and tastes blood on his lips. Jesse can't tell if it is his or that of the dead gang member.

He could have been that guy on the ground, a few years prior, but instead, he's here. He is allowed to stay by Reyes's side, he is provided with food and shelter and safety and he was not even good enough not to get caught in that ambush. That's how McCree repays these favours.  
Still the ungrateful scum his commander picked from the gutter.  
He doesn't deserve Gabriel's kindness.

Warm arms wrap around his shoulders. His boss has holstered his weapon, has even discarded the knife, just to hold him close and pat the tense mass of muscle of his neck. What if.. What if there is still someone there? Hesitantly, he pulls back, far enough to look up at Reyes with reddened eyes.  
"What..." his voice breaks and he just looks around, knowing that Gabriel will understand.  
"There is nobody here except for us. They're dead."  
Dead. Dead. Dead.  
It echoes in his head, harsh and with a finality that almost hurts. Reyes never sugarcoats this side of their work. They are supposed to do this kind of thing.  
They don't gather information. They steal. They don't interview prisoners. They torture. They don't make threats go away. They kill.  
This is simple, simple enough for even stupid Jesse McCree to understand. It's his native language.  
Crime. Violence. Solitude.

This is why the gentle embrace confuses him. He got caught, he fucked up. He was bad.  
He wants, he needs to be punished for this. But Reyes just stays by his side, holding him still, softly caressing his damp, dirty hair. Jesse feels disgusting, his cheeks are sticky with saliva and tears and his nose is running.  
He is sorry. And he wants to be forgiven.  
But gods like Reyes don't offer their forgiveness willingly, so he needs the chance to repent.  
His commander denies him this option for now and while McCree understands that he has no right to ask for it, it hurts all the same. He slumps on the ground, curls up against Reyes's shins, presses his forehead against the toe of his heavy combat boot. This is where he belongs.  
"I'm sorry... so sorry, jefe, I'm sorry, I've been bad," he stammers, not sure how he even manages to get the words past his trembling lips. The guilt rest heavily atop of his chest, presses the wind from his lungs, crushes his heart even in the safety of his cracked ribcage.

"You did good, Jesse. It's not your fault." Reyes rarely takes the blame, but the fact that he doesn't say who else is to blame makes it so obvious he is feeling responsible for this incident. The guilt gets heavier, Jesse's heart seems to skip a beat.  
"No... It's my fault... was cocky... should've been faster..."  
He can't. He'd rather live with this pain in his chest than accept that his beloved endures the same feeling. A desperate hand claws at the thick leather of Reyes's boot. For a moment there is silence and McCree is afraid that his boss might bow down and pick him up, because he knows he's not able to accept that kind of affection right now. He isn't worthy of the safety of a warm embrace, he knows there will be lips pressed to his temple and hands that will rub the tension from his flesh, but he can't take this right now, not when his commander just killed a man for his sake and came back for him and all he did was sit there and cry and watch.

Jesse is grateful when Gabriel doesn't move, even though he feels dark eyes rest on the crumpled, foreign form that is his body.  
"It is not your fault. I planned this mission. I sent you here. I risked too much."  
"...s-s'ppose you trusted me," McCree weakly demurs, but it's so hard to disagree with Reyes and his calm, stern voice. Instead, he pulls a bit closer, mouths at the warm fabric of Gabriel's knee.  
"I did. And you trusted me to give you a task you can handle."  
This had been too much to handle. But maybe, if he'd been better, if he tried harder, he could have done it and his commander would have been proud but he just went here and ruined it and probably lost important intel and risked their cover and risked his boss's life because he's here and that ganger had a weapon of his own and he would've just sat there and stared dumbly and right now he wishes he'd been shot instead because that would be easier to deal with and less painful and better for all of them -  
McCree's body locks up for a moment, he can taste acid on his tongue and heaves as his leg kicks against the warm, heavy body besides them. In this moment, he isn't sure whose corpse it is.  
He hasn't eaten in days, so only a bit of bile splatters on the ground and onto the leather of Gabriel's boot.  
He has soiled him. Left his ugly, disgusting mark on Reyes's clothes and Jesse's sorry again and he doesn't know how to make it good with how he is right now, but he can't even say he's sorry. It would sound like he's expecting his commander to forgive him and he is not in the position to even beg for forgiveness.

Instead, he surges up, wipes his wetness off against the shoulder of his old, sweaty t-shirt. His hands, one intact, the other bruised and broken, reach up to grasp the stiff fabric of Reyes's pants. He needs this.  
Needs to give. To be of any use, no matter how degrading and small it is.  
Jesse presses open-mouthed kisses against Gabriel's crotch, can smell the clean sweat and his own stench. He expects Reyes to push him away, to yell at him, maybe kick him so he stays on the ground like the dog he is, but once more, the man seems to understand Jesse's sick needs better. Strong fingers lace through his tousled hair.

Tears sting in the corners of his eyes once again, but he starts giving in, just follows the lead of that warm, strong hand on the back of his head as he clumsily fumbles with the zipper. It takes him a while and Reyes's pants are dark with spit when he finally pulls them open, greedily going for the older man's cock. He pushes down the underwear just far enough to get at it.  
Of course, Gabriel is not hard, and why would he be, with this disgusting, sniveling thing sitting at his feet, but Jesse is eager and determined to prove he can be of use. He laps at the head of Reyes's cock, tries to ignore the taste still lingering on his tongue and focus on the salt and skin of his beloved instead. Hesitantly, he wraps his lips around the hot flesh, runs the tip of his tongue over the small slit and hears Gabriel sigh above him. The hand in his hair tightens his hold.  
He's doing good.  
Jesse can feel his commander's pulse against his lips, steady and hard, he feels the blood rush through the prominent veins, imagines to notice some friction as he sucks harder and presses his lips against the blood vessel. His spit is still sticky and there is too much in his mouth, but he doesn't mind, instead, he starts to bob his head, tries to get more of the slowly hardening member inside. Jesse licks a wet stripe along the underside of Gabriel's cock, rests his hands against the strong thighs for support. Viscid strings of saliva stick to his chin, soak the patchy beard he's trying to grow. Every move now pulls a noise from him, low hums, breathless gagging whenever the huge cock slides too deep, throaty moans.  
Reyes stays still, only pulls him away every one in a while so he's forced to take a deep breath, not often enough to ruin the numbing, light-headed feeling of a lack of oxygen.  
But he talks. His voice is hushed, a low rumble, so sometimes Jesse can't really make out the words over his own obscene noises, but what little he understands is praise and affection.  
"...so good... feels amazing... don't stop, Jesse... like that... just like that, good boy..."  
He feels dizzy, the pain turns into a constant thrum in the background of his head, so far away he isn't sure if it is really there. Hell, he isn't sure if he's really there. What's real, and what counts is the weight of his beloved's cock on his tongue, his scent in his nose, his voice in his ear and the things it tells him in his head. He looks up and sees Gabriel's face. Furrowed brows, half-parted lips. He has bowed his head, his gaze lingers on Jesse. Bestowing his undivided attention upon him.

The younger agent is not even sure if he is aroused right now, but it does not matter, it's Gabriel's arousal he yearns for. Jesse pushes himself up a bit, swallows around the throbbing erection to take in more, eager to please with little to no regard for his personal needs. It's too much in his state, but he realizes that too late, at least in its entirety.  
Jesse feels his throat clench, his stomach hurts and then there is more acid forcing its way into his mouth and through his nose. When he tries to pull back with a mortified whimper, he notices Gabriel's hand holding him in place.  
No. He just wants to hide. To die. Whatever, but he can't even speak, not without biting Reyes and this is the one thing he won't do, so he looks up, silently praying that Gabriel pushes him off for his deed. The warm, patient look he gets instead feels disheartening.  
"'s alright, cariño. All good. Keep going."  
It hurts. Not only his abused throat, but his chest as well. He doesn't deserve this forgiveness. Ultimately, disobeying his commander is not an option.  
Jesse nods, tries not to think about what a mess he is right now and keeps sucking, retching at the taste in his mouth. Slobber drenches his shirt, Reyes's pubic hair is wet with it as it brushes against his lips. McCree doesn't dare to disappoint. Not again. Tears flow freely, but it doesn't make any difference, he swallows his spit and vomit, gags at the taste as much as the thought of it, but he endures. Somehow, Gabriel is still hard, his breath hitches every now and then, whenever Jesse hits a sensitive spot, like when the tip of his tongue toys with Gabriel's frenulum or when the smooth glans hits the back of Jesse's throat just right.  
By the time Gabriel finally comes in his warm, wet mouth, Jesse has closed his eyes and relaxed, allowed the older male to use his throat as he sees fit. The taste of Reyes's spent overpowers the one from before, heavily salty and slightly acrid. McCree can't help but lick his lips afterward, regrets it immediately.  
He wants to help, but it is awkward with his injured hand, so he rests his cheek against Reyes's dirty pants and watches him getting dressed again. He takes the offered hand that pulls him up, but the sudden shift makes him stagger. Jesse's exhausted, glad that his commander is here to keep him upright because he knows he can't pull his own weight.  
He never would be able to do so.  
"Let's get you out of here."  
And even though Jesse doesn't understand why Reyes would want to keep him, he feels a rush of warm affection at these words.  
"Are we goin' home?"  
"We are," Gabriel promises and the gunslinger knows that he would follow this man to hell and back. Wherever Reyes is, to him, it is home.


End file.
